Fragile
by Glowbug9379
Summary: “Lorelai’s dying,” she whispers. RoryJess. She breaks. He tries to pick up the pieces. (Future Lit.)
1. where you stop and i begin

A phone is picked up; a number dialed by memorization. The one she calls is the last she expects to, but the first that comes to mind. Her fingers drum fervently against the desk, anxious for a response. It rings and rings and rings. And rings some more. Just as she is ready to give in and accept that he isn't there, a voice so distinctly unforgettable provides a response.  
  
"What? Whoever this is, I'm late for work and if it's not fucking somebody dying, then I'll kill you."  
  
Her features contort, and she lowers her eyes at the reminder. She opens her mouth to speak, then pauses, second guessing making this call altogether. His unbound irritation breaks her from her hesitance.  
  
"Come on, asshole, I can hear you breathing."  
  
"Lorelai's dying," she whispers. She can't say 'Mom' because that cements the fact that her mother is going to disappear in front of her. The secondary name is the one she offers, a thin line with which she can distance herself from the truth.  
  
He recognizes her instantly and curses himself for not thinking before he speaks. It is a flaw he has mastered unapologetically until this moment. "Where are you?"  
  
"My apartment."  
  
"Don't go anywhere. Give me twenty minutes." He waits until he hears the click of the dial tone, knowing that she has to end the call first to keep whatever shred of control she's hanging onto.  
  
The train seems to take longer today than it ever has, and he waits, sucking down a cigarette impatiently. When it arrives he pushes past passengers and ensures that he is closest to the exit.  
  
His thoughts are muddled; posing too many questions that he cannot answer. Why she would call him persists as the most bewildering. They haven't spoken in a year, at least. And that was the routine Christmas greeting on her part, one he knows she does more out of obligation than anything else. A card is too impartial for her, but frequency in contact bridges a gap she's unwilling to go near.  
  
His stop is three blocks from her apartment building, and he jogs the rest of the way. Breathing is almost impossible when he approaches his destination, but he keeps running irrespective of that. Once he stops, he examines the brownstone. He's certain this is her building because there's a stinging vision of her kissing a man he assumes was or is a significant other.  
  
With a gloved hand, he presses the buzzer with her name written in.  
  
"Who is it?" she inquires softly.  
  
"Jess," he says.  
  
"Oh. Um, hold on a minute."  
  
Her impeccable timing shows that it is exactly one minute before she buzzes him in, and he searches for the number that was marked beside her name outside. As he reaches it, he braces himself. He hasn't had a real conversation with her in years, and this is the least likely of circumstances in which he expects to.  
  
She opens the door before he can knock, and moves out of the way so that he can come inside. Her eyes are red with the remnants of tears, and while he wants to provide some sort of comfort, it isn't something within his power.  
  
"You didn't have to come," she says.  
  
"You wouldn't call if it wasn't important," he replies, not intending it to be offensive but realizing after he has said it that it might be.  
  
If she is hurt, she makes no note of it. She starts to walk away from him and he follows behind cautiously.  
  
"Do you want some coffee?" she questions.  
  
He means to decline but her expression begs him to reconsider. So he finds himself cringing against the taste of the bitter liquid, all the while watching her clean the studio space with frantic desperation.  
  
"Rory, what are you doing?"  
  
"This place is a mess. I can't believe I didn't try and at least, you know, straighten it up a little before you came over. That's what you do, you clean up when you have company."  
  
Under different conditions he might find some amusement in her compulsiveness, but right now it's nothing short of painful to witness. She's trying to avoid the situation at hand, the truth of her detriment and he is well aware of the fact.  
  
He stands behind her and puts a tentative hand to her shoulder.  
  
She stiffens, and he thinks that he has done the wrong thing until she turns around. Tears cloud her eyes with malicious intent and she falls into his arms.  
  
"I just...she called me today, and it's something with her heart, god I'm horrible I don't even know. I can't do this Jess, I can't."  
  
He doesn't speak for fear of saying the wrong thing. What he does do is run his fingers through her hair, the way he hasn't done in ages. And he lets her cry, because the rarity of this occurrence deems it necessary that she do so.  
  
Deciding she's finished, she pulls away from him. "I'm sorry," she whispers, her head lowering shamefully. Vulnerability in any form is something she tries not to make apparent, and something he of all people shouldn't be privy to.  
  
"Don't worry about it."  
  
"You didn't finish your coffee."  
  
"Not a big fan of the coffee. But thanks for making it," he adds the last part so as not to sound ungrateful.  
  
"Oh. Oh yeah, I forgot that you don't like it. Well, don't worry, I made it for me...it just so happened that you were here for the making of, so I was being polite." Her valiant effort to lighten the mood unwittingly dampens it, and he decides not to retaliate because it is, to him, too inappropriate to do so in her fragile state.  
  
"Do you need to go home?"  
  
"Yeah, I have to. She needs me."  
  
"I'll book your flight," he states, and as he starts for the phone her small, thin voice stops him.  
  
"Jess?" she inquires meekly.  
  
"Yeah?" He looks back at her, wondering when exactly she became so small.  
  
"Will you come with me? Please?"  
  
The plea surprises him. He contemplates the idea and thinks it's a bad one. This is the kind of premise that leads to obstacles he can't handle, especially not when she is involved. However, for the first time in a long time, she is depending on him without her guard up.  
  
Letting her down isn't an option.  
  
"Sure. I'll go," he nods. 


	2. conversations in mute

They sit in silence at their designated gate. He shifts uncomfortably in the chair, trying to adjust himself so that the terminal seems less enclosing. Stealing a glance at her, he sighs and growls an expletive beneath his breath. The delayed flight serves as an excuse for the most awkward silence he has ever experienced.  
  
She pretends to read her book; he pretends to watch the planes taking off. Neither of them is able to focus properly on their assigned tasks as thoughts of each other swim in their heads. With a cleared throat alongside a garbled noise emitted from his throat that he is only slightly embarrassed by, he looks over at her again. She meets his eyes cautiously, and he can still see the mistrust in her gaze.  
  
"You uh, you want something to eat? I think I might get something from the food court."  
  
"It's the International Café," she corrects without missing a beat.  
  
"Excuse me?" he raises an eyebrow.  
  
"The food court...it's called the International Café," she repeats.  
  
"Huh."  
  
"I'm not hungry. I know, warning signs, right? But I can't eat, not now." She stands her ground, almost daring him to challenge her decision.  
  
He doesn't. He knows better than that.  
  
"Okay." In one fluid motion he is on his feet, momentarily immobile as he allows the blood to circulate throughout his limbs. He offers her a smile and she reciprocates. What's strange is that hers makes his look genuine.  
  
From the Café he orders two slices of pizza, pays the vendor for three and heads back in search of the gate.  
  


"I read your book," she announces shortly after they board the plane.  
  
"You did?" This strikes him as a little odd, but he refuses to comment. She is speaking to him in phrases that aren't monosyllabic. To jeopardize that would be stupid.  
  
"I did."  
  
"It was crap." He says it so she doesn't have to.  
  
But, in a way that only she can manage without his temper interfering, she disagrees. "No, it wasn't. I liked it a lot, it was wonderful. The characters, the dialogue, the description—everything, all of it, it was you and it was...it was good. Really good."  
  
To keep himself from staring at her, and also to keep himself from reveling in the fact that her impassioned outburst has something to do with him, he mumbles a thank you and keeps his eyes on his lap.  
  
"Mom read it too. She still won't admit it, but she loved it. I think she's read it at least three times now, and you know she hates reading. Don't tell her I told you, lest I witness the wrath of Lorelai," she blushes at his unwavering attention. "Sorry, I'm rambling."  
  
"Lest?" he smirks a little, thrilled when she glares at him.  
  
"Oh shut up. Don't mock me."  
  
"Sorry. Lest," he snickers.  
  
She pushes him and he feigns hurt. For one instant, they are the same as they were. Comfortable. Reliant. Happy. Her laughter is beautiful, but as soon as it's there, it becomes absent. Her features harden and she retrieves her book.  
  
The conversation dulls back into a silence, and he goes back to looking out the window at other planes.  
  
  
  
During the car ride from Hartford, he treats the rental as a disposable. Flying down dirt roads without concern for the speed or Rory. If she minds, she never expresses her distaste. Nor does she speak. Her interaction with him has transitioned from awkward to mute altogether.  
  
"One question."  
  
Tearing herself away from her book, she raises her head. "Answer."  
  
"Why'd you ask me to come?" This is what he has wondered from the second her voice greeted him from the other end of the line.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You heard me."  
  
"I don't know I guess, I guess you were there and I needed someone to come with me and Jacob's not—"she stops as he cuts her off.  
  
"Jacob?"  
  
"My husband."  
  
And suddenly his heart is in his stomach and he wants to vomit, but thinks that as much as he wants to destroy the vehicle he has no intention of cleaning it, even if the mess is his own.  
  
"You're married?" he manages, fighting for his voice to be heard.  
  
"I thought you knew..." she trails off, guilt warming her face.  
  
"Would've remembered that one."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
Relenting, he lets her continue. "Forget it, you were saying?"  
  
"Jacob, he's on a business trip in Europe. He's on a lot of business trips," she admits, and something about the way she says this tells him not to be selfish, because he doesn't have the right to be. "You were the first person I called. I didn't, I didn't plan on calling you, you know. It just happened. And you came, and thank you for that. You don't have to stay, you know."  
  
There it is—his ticket out. She is giving him what little permission he needs to leave, sans a guilty conscience and a predicament he can easily do without. All he has to do is drop her off at home and hop the next flight back to New York.  
  
"I'll stay," he pauses, "You're not talking, that's why I asked."  
  
"Oh. I'm just worried about her is all. She's never been sick, Gilmore's don't get sick, right? But she is and she's alone and I'm there, and I can't be here all the time. I'm just worried, I wasn't trying to ignore you." Even if inherently, she is, she thinks.  
  
"I didn't think—"There is no proper way to finish this thought. He cannot rectify the damage he has caused her, both in the past and the present. As much as he tries, their fate is always the same. She is hurt; he is the cause. It is a cycle perpetuated into oblivion, and the ending that should suit both of them is always out of his grasp.  
  
Instead, he opts for the silence; it's the sole thing they both do well these days.  
  
  
  
At around noon, he parks the car, now battered and mildly bruised, in front of her childhood home. She exits quickly and hurries up the porch stairs. They agree to meet at the Diner, as he has personal business to take care of and she wants to get settled.  
  
It takes him twenty steps and he's standing in front of the sign, newly painted and bright with menace. His hand grips the doorknob tightly while he debates going inside. The decision is made for him as an elderly couple pushes forward and in the process sends him stumbling in. Subtlety is not his most prominent trait.  
  
The man behind the counter eyes him disdainfully at first. Jess watches his glare bleed into familiar surprise before reverting back to anger.  
  
"What are you doing here?" he asks; it is the same bluntness Jess is used to.  
  
"Long story."  
  
"Try again. Have a seat," He points to a stool that is propped up beneath the counter.  
  
He sits. "How's business?" He doesn't want an answer. This is filler conversation that will not last; Luke won't let it.  
  
"Real funny." There isn't a hint of a smile on the older man's face, and if he lets himself tease the idea, he will find that his uncle is particularly bitter this afternoon—more so than usual, at least. Time, however, has put a rift in a relationship that wasn't solid to begin with, so he assumes his theory is due to absence.  
  
"I heard about Lorelai,' he says.  
  
Luke stiffens, clenches his jaw, and scribbles furiously on his notepad.  
  
Without a verbal confirmation, Jess persists. "She's sick, right? I flew in this morn—"  
  
"Are you kidding?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm big on the jokes."  
  
"What the hell is wrong with you, huh? You brain dead or somethin'? Is this funny for you?"  
  
"What?" he asks, incredulous. "You're crazy, you know that? Jeez, what's your problem?"  
  
"Lorelai's not sick anymore," Luke says softly.  
  
"That's impossible, Rory just got a call this morning saying that there was something with her heart. Do you know where she is or not, that's all I came here for." Tired of this conversation, he slides out of the stool, ready to leave.  
  
"She's dead, Jess. Lorelai died six months ago." 


	3. to the bottom and further down

A/N: For Mai, who demanded it. If it sucks, blame her. ;) Just kidding. It's all me and my sleep-deprived self.

* * *

Words should have formulated by now, he knows. But they aren't there, and he cannot will them out from beneath the dumfounded expression he is wearing. Luke, understanding what needs to be said, elaborates.

Jess paints a picture in his head, and this ferments itself as the truth that shouldn't be.

_She is waiting at the foot of the stairs, a book in hand. Instead of reading, she wonders how long it will be before her mother emerges. They are late enough. And then, she feels guilty. Sometimes she forgets that things aren't the same._

_Lorelai is sick. _

_This is new territory for them both; Rory is sure she's handling it horribly. Every moment hangs in the balance, her sanity swinging in an unsteady limbo. As much as she tries, she finds that she cannot commit it all to memory. _

_While she chides herself for being so pessimistic, there is something that tells her she should be. "Mom, hurry! We're gonna be late!" Today marks the first day she has been home in months. Time doesn't permit it, but ironically, when she learns about her mother, the schedule clears itself. She leans against the banister lazily and sighs. "Mom! What are you doing?" _

_With what little patience she can muster, she trudges up the stairs. _

Jess closes his eyes and shakes his head. "She didn't."

"Yeah," Luke nods slightly.

* * *

The house that isn't hers anymore looms around her, claiming its territory. Every corner is a reminder of memories she doesn't have, the surroundings displaying life she never breathed.

Her hands touch it all, and she is amazed at how quickly she re-learns the shape of things. Visions swirl around in her head, and a slight smile graces her solemn face. This is still home, one way or another.

In her mother's absence, the quiet is deafening. Rory believes that she is still in the hospital, but perhaps it's too late to visit. Her legs carry her into the kitchen, bare feet sticking against the cold tile floor. "Mom, are you home?" she calls out, already knowing the answer. Even so, the effort is made because she has to try.

She settles in an hour later on the living room sofa, awaiting Jess's arrival. In the meantime, she claims some much needed sleep.

* * *

"Congestive Heart Failure," Luke explains away Lorelai's passing indifferently, but Jess is smarter than to trust his monotonous drone. His eyes always give him away, and he sees an infinite emptiness in his uncle's eyes.

"And Rory?" he asks the question without truly wanting to hear the inevitable answer.

Luke sighs, shuffling around the counter. "Rory took it pretty bad. I knew she would, hell, we all knew she would but..." he stops, clears his throat, then continues, "They put her on some meds. Called it Posttraumatic Stress Disorder, but I think it's more than that. She was okay for awhile, then she stopped takin' them."

"Why?"

"Said they made her feel funny," he shrugs.

"Huh."

"Yeah. That's when she started showing up here, asking about Lorelai. We told her and she was a wreck all over again. She figured it out, went home, was back a couple months later. Nobody said anything, just to see."

"What the hell does that mean? Just to see what?" Jess's eyes narrow. He imagines them, the town, the people he thought he had escaped years ago, tricking the one girl who might matter.

"To see what she'd do. We played along." If Luke senses the hostility in Jess's tone, he dismisses it. "Worked out a lot better."

"For who? You and the fucking rednecks in this place?" This remark warrants a few stares.

"You wanna hear the rest or act like a shit?"

"Fine."

"She figured it out on her own, went home. She remembered," he finishes.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"She remembers. She goes home. Rory's okay, she just forgets sometimes."

"Forgets her mom's dead? Doesn't sound too okay to me. You're all morons, playing along to this shit," he snarls, pulling himself to his feet.

"You got anything better? Cause I'd love to know," Luke retaliates.

Jess is too tired to argue and too overwhelmed to offer better suggestions. He thinks that there has to be something better than this, than letting her live in a delusion. As he slips his jacket back on, he nods a goodbye to Luke.

"You gonna be around?"

"Don't really have a choice, do I?" he mutters.

When he lets himself inside the house, he has every intention of finding her and explaining what little he has learned. There is a proper way to handle this, and lying to her doesn't seem fair.

But as he slides off his shoes, he catches a glimpse of her sleeping form on the sofa. And she looks content. He is both unnerved and relieved at this.

Padding quietly into the living room, further into a house that has never felt less alive, he takes a hard look at the woman in front of him. The girl in front of him, at times. Something about her, as long as he has known her, is childlike. She's innocent and sheltered in ways he doesn't know, and broken in ways he cannot imagine her being. Her equation is paradoxical; she balances a fine line between being both naïve and cynical.

Jess watches the rise and fall of her chest with hooded eyes for a few moments, watching her unsteady breathing drift into a rhythm of sorts. He pulls the blanket that covers her higher, ensuring her what little heat he can.

She shifts slightly, and he takes it as his cue to leave. He contemplates a peace offering, maybe a kiss to her forehead, but decides against it. It's a venture too risky for him, for her, for the situation he has unwittingly put himself in.

A fleeting thought tells him he doesn't mind the compromise.


	4. the kind that tells

_**AN: So, I suck. Royally. I don't know who's still reading this, if you are, hats off to you my friend. And even if not, I'm determined to finish this story--it will be done damnit. I'm just not sure how long it'll take. School is my only excuse...at this stage in my life I'm writing for a living and so writing for fun is sort of a rare commodity these days. So there's that. But I'll finish this...I've invested too many plot bunnies in it not to. Thanks to those who are keeping up.**_

When her eyes open, it is dark outside. The sofa is not quite as comfortable as it seemed hours before, the blanket not enough to warm her against the winter that hovers outside but somehow sneaks in. She slings her legs over the side, pulling herself to her feet with a tired trepidation. There is a foreign smell coming from the kitchen, something that's more than takeout and feels like comfort.

She walks into the kitchen, slowly, almost effortlessly floating in. Jess is cooking, and the vision is so awkward she cannot help but laugh a little. He turns, hooded eyes narrowing. "What?"

"You're cooking," she smiles.

And he thinks he wants to hold onto this memory, the way her eyes are alive and her smile is finally genuine. It's only for a second, but it lingers and he almost feels like reciprocating the gesture. He doesn't; it's not something he's capable of.

"That's funny?"

"It's weird." Rory approaches him, still slightly wary in her movements. She stands on her toes to see over his shoulder, and he can't quite focus because all he feels is her breath on his neck. "But it smells good."

"Hungry?"

"Very."

The staccato conversation is okay for now; it's a little more familiar, a little less controlled.

They eat dinner in silence, and she does not miss the way his gaze is constantly flickering to meet hers, yet she can't bring herself to really look at him. "What?" she drawls.

"It's edible?"

"Oh, yeah it's great. Very edible, in fact."

"Good," he nods.

"What else?" she presses.

He concentrates on his plate, memorizing the patterns. "Nothing."

"Right. Same old Jess."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

And the quiet fills in for the only excuse they have.

He opens the cupboard and the thoughts he refused to articulate hardly an hour before are mocking him, vicious and taunting. The bottom shelf is lined with prescription bottles, her name neatly typed onto endless labels. What's ironic is that there isn't a pharmacist within thirty miles of Stars Hollow.

He glances over to find her still at the kitchen table with a book in hand. With his right hand he gropes for as many of the bottles as his palm can hold, secures them safely within his arms and sets them down in front of her.

She flinches at the sudden intrusion of her space, gaze flinching from the book to the table back to him. "What's this?"

"You tell me."

"They're prescriptions or something, I don't know. Were you going through the cabinets?"

"I was looking for dishtowels."

"Dishtowels are usually in drawers."

Sliding into the chair that faces her, Jess tries to rationalize what she's doing. Whether this is a game of avoidance or sheer naiveté he's not sure of. Either is possible with her; both are probable. Rory looks at him over her book, sheer annoyance and nothing else painted onto her delicate irritation.

"They have your name on them, Rory," he states flatly.

"They're probably my mother's, then," she growls, setting the book down. She pushes back the chair, stands, stumbling back a little. His eyes follow her lead as his fingers wrap around one of the bottles.

"Lorelei Leigh…" he trails off, searching for some semblance of recognition in her face.

"What are you, Hercule fucking Poirot? Jesus, Jess I don't know. I don't even remember, I haven't lived here in what, seven years?"

"They're your pills, Rory."

"Okay, yes, fine, they're my pills. Thank you. Brilliant deduction."

"They're your pills and they were prescribed four months ago."

He finds himself standing, closing the distance between them, overstepping the boundaries of comfort he has spent the past three days so meticulously trying to rebuild. Where they are now is a precarious balance, and he is shattering it, bit by bit.

"I don't know what you're getting at, and you really seem to, so why don't you just say it?"

"She's not in the hospital, is she?"

"_What?_" Her jaw drops slightly before she laughs, translucent and empty and dead. "Wow, you know Jess, you've always been so good at finding escape clauses but this…"

"Huh?"

"You didn't have to come, you could have said no. You could have stayed in New York."

"Rory, I wanted to—"

"You didn't have to make up some crappy detective game and some even crappier solution so you could get yourself out of staying."

"That's not it." He says nothing more for fear of digging himself a deeper hole.

"Yeah, okay. Go home, Jess."

"Rory…" he shakes his head, wondering how it is exactly that even now he is capable of making her cry, of hurting her in a way that apparently only he knows to do.

"Go."

His hand reaches forward, fingers dancing across her cheek. She turns away, determined not to give him the satisfaction. There is too much history here for this trip to end safely, and she's certain she will finish it prematurely.

"I have to call Jacob."

As always, she is the only one who can shut him down. He freezes, expression stoic. Hurriedly, he removes his hand and does what he does best—makes a quick and efficient exit.


End file.
